


Come Back

by hazleweatherfield



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazleweatherfield/pseuds/hazleweatherfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's return after being gone for three years. Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John feels warm and content here, in Sherlock’s arms. He never wants to leave because of how perfect he feels at this moment with Sherlock and his impossibly long limbs pressing their naked forms together.

“I love you so much, please don’t leave me again” John begs.  
Sherlock looks John in the eyes before saying, “I won't, I promise”

Sherlock leans in to kiss John gently, lips barely touching John’s before retreating once again. John nods before nuzzling into Sherlock’s neck once more. He loves it there; it’s where he smells most like his distinctive “Sherlock” scent, cigarettes, chemicals, tea (mostly made by John), and something completely unidentifiable. His body is warm and inviting for John to hold against his own body, both men in a delightful daze, just barely falling asleep.

Then, Sherlock’s neck feels ice cold and John soon feels the blood smearing onto his face as he nuzzles into Sherlock’s neck.  
 _Oh god no._

“Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me please don’t go I can’t do it without you.” John weeps as he grippes Sherlock’s cold dead body for dear life, his hands trying to stop the blood from flowing, but never finding the source.

John’s eyes wrench open as he wakes to his own screaming, “don’t leave me”, his back was arching and every muscle is tense and heart pounding like it wants to escape his chest. He doesn’t have nightmares about Afghanistan anymore, now all he sees when he closes his eyes is Sherlock.

_Mrs. Hudson probably heard that._  John thinks as he rolls over to look at the digital clock, which resides on his nightstand. Tonight’s nightmare was a particularly bad one as far as his nightmares go, but not the worst. No, the worst ones are the ones where Sherlock reaches for him in the night. The ones where they go where John had wishes he had had the courage to take them. Those are the worst for John, when he wakes up with the sobs already racking through his chest and shame making it impossible to even recognize the hardened arousal he wakes up with.

Tonight, however, John just lies there sobbing, curled up as tight as he can. Finally, when the tears stop and the sobs subside, John makes his way to the bathroom, he bypasses the mirror, knowing that what he sees won’t look like him and turns the shower on, undressing as the water heats up. When John steps into the shower he doesn’t even register the scalding temperature, he just stands there until it runs cold. The jolt of the cold water reminds him where he is and he begins to shampoo his hair and wash himself. It’s only four in the morning, but there isn’t any chance of him falling back to sleep anyway. John goes back to his room, dresses and wanders into the living room.

After busying himself for a few hours by catching up on paperwork for the clinic, John fixes himself a light breakfast of tea and toast with raspberry jam. Sherlock’s favorite, not his, but it is what is left in the kitchen and John hasn’t been able to stop at Tesco this week for groceries. He only takes one bite before tossing it in the bin, telling himself he isn’t hungry. This happens more often than John cares to recognize.

John only allows himself to think of Sherlock in little doses throughout the day. Never too much, but he can’t eliminate, or “delete” as Sherlock would put it, him from his daily thoughts. He thinks of him when he sees a blue scarf around the neck of a passerby, or smells cigarette smoke from the same brand he smoke before he quit. These little reminders keep john sane, but also torture him. Once he even thought he saw Sherlock, just for a fleeting moment when he was trying to hail a cab to work. But when he looked again he was gone.

Sometimes, when John is truly alone, in his office or at Baker Street, he’ll say three words that only he can hear, barely above a whisper.

“Please come back”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic! I haven't really done this before and I don't know how long this will be or where it's going to go. There was a short post on tumblr, some time ago, that stuck with me and I wanted to expand on it some more.


	2. Chapter 2

Another hour passes as Sherlock tosses and turns on the uncomfortable mattress that probably predates his own existence.  He sleeps even less now, while he’s working on the operation to take down the rest of Moriarty’s criminal organization. Sleep is useless to him anyway, not when he could be spending the time going over his plans to take down the remaining shreds of Moriarty’s criminal empire. The last two were married and traveling together.  The latest information from Mycroft indicates that they are in Turkey. The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can come back, back to everything, Baker Street, life, and John. Only two people are left in Moriarty’s organization. Just two, and after three years and countless others, two feels like nothing to Sherlock.

Sherlock sits up, rubbing the stubble growing out on his jaw. He looks rather different now, his hair dyed ginger and shorn far too short for his liking. It’s completely necessary, of course, to alter his appearance for this operation. Recognition would ruin the entire operation, it damn near killed him to leave his coat with Mycroft for safe keeping, as it had become an identifying feature of Sherlock Holmes, along with that fucking deerstalker. 

The room he currently resides in was sparse, to say the least, there is a bed, a washing basin with a mirror above it and a window that he keeps shut and locked at all times. Sherlock misses Baker Street’s warm and welcoming feeling desperately, he misses everything about it, really, the fireplace, the skull, the audacious wallpaper, experiments in the kitchen, tea and John. Especially John.

Three years of near solitude have allowed Sherlock to understand and sort out where John falls within his life. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to recognize that John is his life. He is doing this for his safety, and others also, but he only thinks of John whenever he considers running back to Baker Street when this ghastly and taxing operation becomes too much for him to handle. He thinks of John and keeps going. He thinks of jumpers and tea and kisses that never were and longing that always was and what will be. He misses him so much that it hurts, almost constantly.

_All for you. All of me, everything I do. For you. No one else, just you._ This thought has been a mantra for Sherlock for these three years; these words are sometimes all that keeps him alive.

The clock reads 4:30 am; he has a few hours before he has to make his move to take out the last two remaining members of Moriarty’s organization. He has been tracking this man and his wife for weeks, Timothy and Debra Rushmore, both integral members of the criminal empire Moriarty built. Once they got wind that members were being hunted down, they fled the England and hooped from country to country in Europe, and now are currently residing Turkey. Sherlock has only just found them and fully intends to finish three years of work as soon as possible.  

Sherlock crosses the room and begins to make a valiant attempt at bathing. _I am dying my hair back to it’s natural color as soon as I get back to London_ , decides Sherlock as he examines his gingery-blonde colored hair. Over the past few years, Sherlock’s hair has been a myriad of colors, at one point he was a bleach blonde, it had also been pink, for about two days. So, overall Sherlock is doesn’t hate his current color as he knows it has been far worse. The art of disguise is key to making sure he that he isn’t caught or recognized by anyone in Moriarty’s organization.  It will be worth it, in the end, to know that John is safe.  Sherlock becomes lost in thought as he tries to wash his hair with the bar of soap he found in the room. After rinsing and towel drying his hair thoroughly, Sherlock looks over at the clock once more; it reads 5:00 am. He has an hour to get to the Rushmore’s flat, its about a mile away from the tiny flat Sherlock is staying in, but the walk there is easy and walking will give Sherlock the advantage of silence.

Sherlock pulls open the drawer in the bedside table next to the bed and empties it in one go. The drawer only contains a gun and a cell phone Sherlock isn’t going to use until this final part of the operation is complete. The gun, some large type of handgun that Sherlock doesn’t deem necessary to know, is still fully loaded. He sticks the gun into the waist of his pants, so it rests at his lower back. A cold metal reminder of what he is about to do.

Once Sherlock makes sure that every trace of him is removed from the room, he begins to walk to their flat. The walk gives Sherlock time to go over his course of action and escape, should anyone try to halt his progress as he leaves, which he doubts. He sees the tall building that the Rushmores reside in from a small ways away. It’s still dark, but Sherlock makes sure to couch a little as he approaches the building and moves slowly and quietly to the back of it. The Rushmore’s took a second floor flat, as if that would be any more secure.  The building is old, the brick covered in ivy, which makes climbing the up wall and into the living room window very easy for Sherlock.  While in the living room he attaches the silencer to his gun and navigates his way to the master bedroom. There only seems to be one bedroom. _No children, good,_ thinks Sherlock. He quietly opens the bedroom door and the whole affair is over in a matter of seconds. They were both asleep when he killed them.

Sherlock feels nausea roll over him, contrary to popular opinion at the yard, he doesn’t have the stomach for murder. He takes a moment to pull himself together before pulling the phone from his pocket. He dials the only number stored in the phone.

“It’s done,” he says. Then hangs up. Sherlock suddenly feels exhausted, but knows he needs to leave and wait for Mycroft at his tiny flat. Sherlock climbs back down and walks as a fast as he can, to get away before Mycroft’s cleanup team arrive to take care of the rest of it. The flat is empty when he gets there, Mycroft won’t be there for another hour, according to a sharply worded text message received on the way back to the flat. He collapses onto the bed and has one really important thought before passing out from exhaustion.

 

_It’s over. I can come back. Back to John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come, I promise!


	3. Chapter 3

Every Friday, unless he has a pressing case, Greg Lestrade makes sure to take John to the pub to get drunk off his ass. Most Fridays, he makes it work, so it has become a weekly tradition of sorts over the past few years.  It started out as Greg making sure John hadn’t killed himself and got some form of social interaction.  The man needs to something other than drink tea in his flat and work.

This Friday is no different than the last, and as Greg sends a rather eloquent text comprising of “Wat U doin 2nite. Drinks later?” to John (he knows text shorthand annoys him), he hears a knocking at his door.

“Bloody hell” he mutters, he didn’t like people entering his office too much, “come in” he say.

“Hello darling,” Mycroft says. “I hope you aren’t working too hard.”

            Greg blushed, he loved being called darling by Mycroft and he always blushes slightly every time Mycroft calls him it, even when he uses it in passing. And especially when he says it in bed, after they’ve both been thoroughly been fucked into the mattress. They have only been together for about a year, but Greg already knows it’s forever. He just hasn’t said it to Mycroft yet.

            “I always am,” says Greg “but not too hard that I can’t spare a few moments for you” Mycroft’s smile turns into a mischievous smirk as he saunters over to Greg’s chair. He stands be hind it and carefully places his hands on the back, then he twists it around to face him, Mycroft shifts to straddle him, leaning forward to place his mouth on Greg’s ears and grind his arousal against Greg’s.

            “I was hoping you could spare more than a few” Mycroft says, mouthing the words into Greg’s ear, and lightly brushing his hand up Greg’s thigh finding his now painfully hard erection straining against his pants. The sensation sends shivers down his spine and he bites back a moan.

“Tell me what you want, Gregory” Mycroft says, almost growling. Almost. “And I will give it to you.”

 _Jesus,_ only Mycroft called him that and it always turns him on beyond belief to hear his name rolling off Mycroft’s tongue.

            “Y-You, inside m-me. Now.” Greg gasps, breathless and they haven’t removed a single item of clothing yet.  Mycroft has always been attractive to Greg, and after his divorce it only took about a day after he signed the papers for Mycroft to ask him out. They were mad for each other from the first and awkward kiss that night.

            Mycroft’s eyes dilate until they are almost all pupil, he nods and reaches down to the bottom desk drawer and fishes out the lube and condoms.

“Pants. Off. Now.” He orders. Greg does as he is told and removes his trousers and boxers. He then clears his desk and bends over it resting on his elbows, knowing full well the effect the sight of him, exposed like that, has on Mycroft.

            It’s now Mycroft’s turn to swallow his moan. He removes his waistcoat, trousers and silk boxers, and carefully rolls the condom onto his cock.  Mycroft pops the cap off the lube, after that drips a copious amount onto his fingers, slathering his cock in it, before he reaches for Greg.

            Mycroft swirls his fingers gently at Greg’s puckered entrance, then slides two of his long fingers inside and Greg is thankful that his office is damn near soundproof  (he suspects some clandestine remodeling on Mycrofts part) because he can’t contain the moans that escape his lips as Mycroft slides his sinfully long fingers in and out of him. Greg practically screams every time Mycroft’s fingers brush against his prostate.

            “N-Now! Mycroft, please!” He begged

            “If you insist” Mycroft says, his voices trembling a bit.

            Carefully, Mycroft lines himself up to Greg’s entrance and slowly pushes in, wanting to last as long as possible.  Mycroft relishes in the feeling of Greg’s tight heat engulfing him slowly until he is fully inside of him. Mycroft’s knees begin to weaken as the heat coiled in the pit of his stomach begins to burn down his thighs. The need for release is unbearable and Mycroft starts to fuck Greg into the desk as hard as he can.

            Greg loves this feeling. Being full and complete with Mycroft inside him. With every brush of Mycroft’s cock against his prostate, his knees grew weaker, driving him closer and closer to the edge.

            “Fuck, Mycroft—harder,” Greg grunted.

            With that, Mycroft picked up the pace, slamming himself into Greg with everything he had, angling himself so he hit Greg’s prostate with almost every thrust. He felt him tense as the pleasure rolled through him in waves, Greg coming all over his desk (not the first time he’s done this and certainly not the last), Mycroft following him with his own orgasm, spluttering words he knew didn’t make sense and digging his fingers harder into Greg’s hips as came.

            Once Mycroft regains awareness, he slides out of Greg and throws the condom in the bin, thankful it lands in it his time, cleaning semen off the walls isn’t a chore that Mycroft enjoys, but he refuses to leave it for the janitorial staff to find. As he did this, Greg wiped down the desk with cleaning solution and a cleaning rag he keeps in his office for just these occasions. After about a year of office shagging, they have a system.

            After cleaning and redressing, Mycroft and Greg snuggle a bit in his office chair, with Mycroft on his lap.

            “I have a surprise for you when we get home, love” whispers Mycroft, with a look of serious remorse carved into his face.

            “Is it bad?” asks an alarmed Greg.

            “It’s both good and bad, I guess you can say, I’d rather explain more to you in the car.” He says.

            “Alright, I don’t have much left to do today, and the days almost done, we could leave now, if you like.” It was a thankfully slow day for the homicide department. 

            “Yes, it’s perfectly alright with me.”

            They walk hand-in-hand to the car, and slide in next to each other. The black car was probably worth more than all cars in the Yard’s parking garage put together. Mycroft loves to make a statement.

            “So, what did you want to tell me?” says Greg, turning to face him.

            “May I please begin by saying that it was a matter of national, and personal, security that you were unaware of what I am about to tell you,” He says.

            “This is going to be good” chuckles Greg, nervously.

            “Sherlock is alive and staying in our guest bedroom. John doesn’t know yet.”

            “What?” asks Greg.

“He survived the fall and spent a few months recuperating in a safe house from the injuries he received from it” Explains Mycroft.

            “What?” Greg repeats

“Moriarty was real and he died that day on the roof, to save you, John and Mrs. Hudson, he faked his own death. He has been spending the last three years dismantling Moriarty’s empire in order to insure the nations safety, though I believe he mainly did it for Johns safety.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“What he was doing was top secret, hardly anyone knew.”

“I am too shocked to be mad right now. But, I suppose I should also be happy? And John! Oh Christ, what are we going to do about him?” asks Greg.

“We let Sherlock go back to Baker Street when he is ready and then give John some time to understand what happened and maybe forgive my brother.”

“Alright,” Gregs says as they pull up to the town house.

            “I probably have to cancel drinks with john tonight at the pub, don’t I?” He says with a half-grin.

            “If it’s alright with you, dear, yes please do.” Says Mycroft.

Greg walks in to their flat and follows Mycroft towards the guest bedroom, Sherlock appears to be sleeping and for a moment they both stand in the doorway watching him like concerned parents.

            “I am awake, you know, you can stop hovering.” Says Sherlock.

            “I see he retained all of his tact and trademark pleasantness” Says Greg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to have misplaced my shame somewhere...


	4. Chapter 4

Looking like a petulant child, Sherlock sits at the dining table and looks defiantly at his plate, as if daring himself not to eat it. It is a lovely plait of eggs, beans, sausage, two rounds of toast, and next to it, a tall glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. None of it touched. Mycroft and Greg are sitting across from him waiting for him to talk.

            “You aren’t going to tell mummy are you?” asked Sherlock, sudden realization dawning upon him. She would have his head above her fireplace if she found out.

            “I’ll leave that joyous endeavor to you, dear brother.” Mycroft says through a smirk, “and eat, you look like a strong gust of wind could knock you over.”

            Sherlock’s will breaks as he begins shoveling food into his mouth in a rude manner that is half out of desperate need for nutrition and half to bother Mycroft. Sherlock smiles as he gets crumbs on the tablecloth, knowing that Mycroft is probably bristling with annoyance.  

            Once he has finished eating, Greg asks, “When are you going back to Baker Street?”

            “As soon as I get a shave and a decent haircut” Still a slave to his vanities, Sherlock doesn’t want john to see him looking like he does. His hair unevenly cropped, stubble now ambitiously appearing to be more beard like and his clothing hanging off him like sheets on a close line.

            “Will he take me back?” asks Sherlock, almost in a whisper.

            “I’m sure he will, and when he does, Greg and I will give you two some time to work out your lives together”

            “I won’t be giving you any cases for at least a week,” Says Greg.

            “And I will keep away, unless John tries to kill you, I wouldn’t blame him, however.”

            “You hurt him, little brother, to fix this, it will take time.”

 

            After a proper shave and a highly trained hairdressers attempts to salvage his hair, restoring its natural brunette, almost black in some lighting, hair color and slipping into a new suit, his old ones still didn’t fit, Sherlock felt more like himself. More like the Sherlock that John knew.  He finds his coat, soon after; it sits folded over a chair. Sherlock reaches out and strokes the dark wool with his fingers, the feel of the wool incites memories of running through alleys, hopping from rooftop to rooftop and always knowing who would be right at his side. He slides effortlessly back into the coat, feeling a little more complete.

          Before he knows it he is in one of Mycroft’s countless black cars. He’s going back to Baker Street. A nervous coil twists his stomach, imperceptibly, at first, but as he gets closer to 221B Baker Street it becomes almost unbearable.  Sherlock, for the first time, doesn’t know what’s going to happen. He tries to calm himself to no avail and starts having a minor panic attack in the back seat. The phone in his pocket vibrates. The text reads, “Don’t panic – MH”. Somehow, this grounds Sherlock, and his breathing calms down a bit as the car parks in front of Baker Street. 

         Three years, all of it culminating in him knocking on the door, but he can barely feel his arms. He takes a deep breath and knocks. Hopefully Mrs. Hudson won’t answer; Sherlock can’t handle her right now. Thankfully, it’s John who opens the door, looks at Sherlock, and promptly keeps walking past Sherlock and down the street to Tesco.

            “Dammit” John mutters as he opens the fridge. It’s almost empty, sans some cheese that appears to have evolved into something sentient. He hasn’t been to the shops in a couple weeks. Taking care of himself has been a hard thing to remember to do. With his days being so jam-packed with misery and numbing pain, he hardly has time for much else. And work at the clinic keeps him busy too.  He probably would’ve killed himself months ago, but the idea of Mrs. Hudson finding his dead body made him feel to guilty, and to John, suicide just isn’t in the cards for him. So now he just exists to keep up appearance, hoping to be hit by a car (accidentally, of course), or being struck by lightening or being bit by a cobra on the loose from the zoo.  He fixes himself a quick cup of tea (thankfully not out of that), and throws on his jacket as he hears someone knocking at the front door. He waits for Mrs. Hudson to get it, but then remembers she is staying with her sister for a month or so to help her recover from a broken hip.

            “Coming!” he shouts.

            When he opens the door, in the span of three seconds, he has three thoughts: _1\. No. He’s dead, I saw him die. No. 2. Oh god, please no. 3. It’s not real, he’s not real. You’ve had hallucinations before, Watson. You know they can be pretty vivid._   After the mental deliberation, John decides to continue his journey to Tesco, walking past Sherlock. Sherlock follow quietly, with a look of utter shock on his face. He follow him to Tesco, inside, through the isles as he grabs necessities, and to the checkout. Not saying a word.

            _Why is he ignoring me?_   Thinks Sherlock, alarmed and confused by getting the brush-off from John. It’s only once they’re in Baker Street that John talks to him.

            “Why are you here?”

            “I missed you my work was done. Please let me expl—“ says Sherlock, cut off by Johns hand.

            “Stop. Stop this. Just go away! Why are you here?”

            Sherlock doesn’t understand, Johns face is getting red and is swaying on his feet.

            Locking eyes with John, Sherlock says, with the most ferocity he can muster,

            “I. Am. Not. Leaving.”

            John’s face goes pale and he nods in acceptance. He starts to unpack the groceries and then fixes them both two cups of tea.  He reaches up into the cupboard to grab the two mugs they always had their tea in, when John made it. He prepares it just how he remembers it, like it was yesterday. Not three years ago. Milk and sugar for himself, black with enough sugar to rot his teeth out for Sherlock. It was like muscle memory for John.

            The next week is the exact opposite of what Sherlock expects from John. He’s quite and hasn’t yelled at him one since the first day he came back. Sherlock begins to worry, as John has called in sick to work for the week isn’t bothering to shave or shower. He even looks ill, his skin pail and stubble gown out to a bear, pajamas from three days ago still being worn, and a general disregard for his own health and wellness.  He hasn’t said a word to him, apart from offering him tea and food. By Friday, Sherlock is beginning to worry he shouldn’t have some back, that John hates him. They are sitting in the living room, Sherlock on the sofa, John on his chair. Just staring at him, with a mix of anger and disbelief on his face.

            “John, what’s wrong?”

            “What’s wrong?” John repeats, “You are here, that’s what is wrong. I saw you die, Sherlock. I know you died. Why are you here?”

            “I’m alive, John! Look at me! I am breathing!”

            “No, you aren’t. You can’t be. Why. Why. Why. WHY WON’T YOU GO AWAY?!”

            “I can’t leave you, John, especially not like this”

            “If you don’t leave, I will make you.” John says, walking to the stairs and up to his room, leaving Sherlock in the living, confused and worried. He grabs his handgun and walks back down stairs.  He walks back into the living room and takes aim.

            Once Sherlock sees the gun, his heart rate rises and his hands start to shake.

            “John, please, I love you, don’t do this. Please. Why are you doing this? I don’t understand”

            “And I loved you.  GO AWAY” John bellows, tears streaming down his face. His nose, pink and eyes watering, but his aim still steadily trained on Sherlock.

            Just then, right as John was just about to try to shoot Sherlock (well, hallucination Sherlock) and then himself, five heavily armed men burst into the flat and run upstairs. John stares in disbelief and promptly faints, dropping the gun. Sherlock follows suit and collapses on the carpet as well.  Mycroft and Greg walk in after the armed guards and look at the both of them with a mix of shock, humor and disapproval on their faces.

            “That could have gone better,” says Greg.

            “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry” Muses Mycroft, pursing his lips while surveying the scene.  “Take them both to the hospital” He orders.

 

Mycroft watches on as John continues to behave in an odd manner. He has been monitoring them on the hidden cameras he had placed in 221B years ago, in case of an incident. He even as a team on standby should things turn deadly for either men. It won’t come to that though. He hopes.

 

His hopes are shattered when he sees John getting his gun, he whips out his phone he immediately alerts the team near baker street and they are mobilized in second running towards the flat and kicking down the door in minute, before anything can happen.

Mycroft rushes to the flat calling Greg on the way.

“Emergency at Baker Street, come at once.” He practically yells into the phone On my way,” says Greg.

They arrive at roughly the same time, Mycroft just getting out of his car as Greg pulls up. Greg rips the keys out of the ignition and leaps out of his car, practically running to see Mycroft.

            “What happened?” asks Greg

            “John pulled a gun on Sherlock, but no one has been hurt. I’m going in now to survey the damage”

            “I’ll join you.”

            After entering Baker Street, both Sherlock and John are sent to the hospital, after fainting like a pair of regency heroines. Greg and Mycroft accompany them both and wait for them both to wake up.

            John wakes first and looks over to the bed next to him, and his head falls back onto his pillow has he presses the heels of his hand s into his eyes, as if willing the sight to go away.

            “You should forgive him, you know.” Says Mycroft. John jumps thinking he was alone and stares at them both incredulously, eyes wide.

            “And not pull a gun on him again,  I know you’re angry with him and I sympathize completely, I can’t tell you haw many times I’ve nearly killed him!” Greg says, jokingly.

            John looks at them and asks, in an almost whisper,  with tears once again streaking his face,

            “You can see him too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what's up with the formatting, it gets changed from the original when I post. More to come!


	5. Chapter 5

 

            Sherlock wakes up to John staring at him from his bed, Sherlock looks around at the room, and it’s late evening, but still the same day as when he fainted in the living room, according to the clock. He hasn’t been out for very long. They are in a private room, _Mycroft,_ and both are thankfully dressed in soft cotton pants and t-shirts. The gowns would have just been too much horror for one day. Everything in the room looks sanitized within an inch of its life, and the sheets are rough and scratchy on his skin. The polka dot pattern is faint and altogether unsettling for Sherlock. He has never been a fan of hospitals. He sits up and turns, thankful to not be in a gown as he shifts around and looks at John. He is awake and burning Sherlock, or at least trying to, with his eyes.

            _You’re alive. Really alive, with flesh and bone and teeth and lips and everything not rotting six feet under in a walnut casket. Bastard._ John thought while glaring holes  into Sherlock’s skull.

            “John,”

            “Don’t.”

            “Please”

            “No.”

            “Please” Sherlock’s voice cracks.

            Johns face softens and the lines that looked carved into his face before began to disappear. Anger ages his face, looking at the almost destroyed man that miraculously rose from the dead, but now he looks years younger. _He came back to me. He came back to me._ He thinks. He sits up and looks at him for a moment, not glaring, just seeing him for the first time in three years.  A part of John Watson long dead, three years dead, comes back to life at that moment. It feels odd, like blood flowing back into a limb that has fallen asleep or gone numb.

            “Later, alright?” he says, not breaking eye contact with Sherlock.

            “Thank you,” He replies.

 

            Before anything else can be done or said, Mycroft walks in. Greg had to go back to work at the Station, leaving Sherlock and John in the capable hands of his Mycroft. He walks to the center of the room, facing both beds and looks at them each for a moment before addressing them. He turns to John first.

            “Well, this could have gone better.” He says, slightly grimacing at the thought of the gunplay that occurred earlier.

            “I’m not the one who faked his own fucking death and expected open arms and tea when I got back, bloody tosser,” grumbles John.

            “Are we done with the gunplay and fainting?” He asks.

            “Why are we in a hospital, Mycroft?” asks Sherlock, “We only fainted, it’s not like John actually _shot_ me.”

            “You haven’t eaten a proper meal in over a week and John you were obviously in severe psychological distress. Neither of you were fit to take care of yourselves, at the time, so you were taken here. I repeat, are we done with the hysterics and gunplay?” Says Mycroft.

            “Yes, _mother”_ Sherlock spits.

            John chuckles, faintly and Sherlock’s eyes light up as whips his head around and looks at him. They lose it when they make eye contact, both laughing at how unbelievable their life is.  John really feels like screaming or crying, but all that comes out is laughter, and Sherlock just wants to go back to baker street with John and have everything be as it was.  When the laughter quiets down, Mycroft gives each a serious glare.

            “I mean it.”

Both men nod, not looking at Mycroft or each other.  Sherlock focuses intensely on the blankets covering his legs and John stares at the window, trying not to scream as he watches a bird land on a tree branch outside his window.

Soon after their conversation with Mycroft, they are stepping into a cab. John felt awkward sliding into the seat with Sherlock again, like everything had returned to how it was.  But for John, it’s not the same, it’s even worse than before for him. Sherlock lied to him; he decided that he wasn’t smart enough, good enough, to a part of his master plan.  

The ride home was silent and tense for both men, each wrapped up in their own heads. John letting the betrayal sink into his bones and Sherlock anticipating that John will never speak to him again. Thoughts gripping their minds and seizing their hearts, talking just isn’t an option for them at the moment.

            Sherlock is desperately hoping that John will at least try to let Sherlock explain everything before he never sees him again. He needs to explain, he can’t let John hate him without knowing everything. All of it, everything he did, the running, the hiding, and the blood he spilled, trying to protect the only person he ever cared so deeply about. All he wants John to know is how deeply he is gripped by him, how much he regrets never reaching over and taking the step neither of them had the courage to. He never wants to hurt him again. Ever.

            The cab pulls up to Baker Street and John is out of it like a coiled spring, by the time Sherlock had paid the cabbie, he was already unlocking the door and stepping inside. Sherlock followed him in, up the stairs and into the living room. He expected something, but still received nothing. Not even a well deserved punch in the face.

            John is in his room by the time Sherlock get’s through the door. _Those short legs move fast_. He thought.

            So, Sherlock makes two cups of tea, a task John Watson has long assumed he is incapable of completing, and waits. Sherlock sat for a few hours, perching on his chair, waiting for John to come downstairs. He has to at some point; he does require food, water and the bathroom. After three hours, he makes an appearance. Sherlock snaps to attention and grabs Johns mug, now full of tepid brown liquid. He rushes to the other man and presents the tea to him.

            “How long ago did you make this, Sherlock?”

            “I… I don’t know. I was waiting for you to come downstairs.”

            “Why were you waiting?”

            “So you could yell at me, punch me in the face, then kick me out” Sherlock said with complete seriousness.

            For the second time that day, John Watson starts to laugh. He hasn’t laughed this much in years. Three, to be exact.  The laughs quiet down to a light chuckle and he looks at Sherlock. Sherlock’s face is open and confused, his normal mask of unfeeling indifference is gone.

            “You’re serious, aren’t you?” John asks.

            “Yes.”

            John rubs his eyes and replies, “I can’t make any promises about punching you, but you aren’t gong to be kicked out. Hell, I left you room as it was; Mrs. Hudson even dusted in there while you were dea—away.”

            “If you aren’t going to kick me out or hit me, for the time being, than what are you going to do?”

            “I want answers, “ he says.

            “Do you have time?”

            “Lots of it.”

            “It’s a hell of a story.”

            “It better be.”

            “I’ll put on the kettle”

            “I’ll order dinner.”

            “John?”

            “Yes?”

            “I am so sorry.”

            “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long! Also, if the formatting is odd, it's not me, it's AO3.


	6. Chapter 6

“There are things I have done that I never want to tell you—anyone, really, about.”

“Just slow down, start from the beginning, alright.”

“I don’t know how to start there’s just so much to say.”

John stays silent for a moment, just looking at Sherlock’s body. It’s gotten slimmer since he last saw him, and there are a few marks on his hands, wrists, neck and one right behind his ear. _How could that have gotten there?_ John thinks.

“Where did that scar come from?” He asks

“Which one? I have no doubt amassed many in our time apart.”

John reaches over and lightly brushes his fingertips behind Sherlock’s ear, touching the scar for less than a second before pulling away. The small amount of physical contact, especially from john sends electricity from the point where his fingers met skin, all throughout Sherlock’s body. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed those little touches from his good doctor. Small pats here and there, a caring hand when he was wounded, little things he hadn’t realized he had grown to love and miss.

“That is an interesting one. You happened to pick the first one I acquired on my mission. It came from none other than Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s right hand man. He wasn’t thrilled at learning that I was alive and that his boss was not.”

“What happened, Sherlock?

“He would have taken over right where his former boss had left off, so I had take care of him first. He had to be the first to fall in the long line of people I had to take out in order to dismantle Moriarty’s criminal empire.” Sherlock’s takes a breath hand looks at John, gauging his reaction so far, to his story.

“I broke into his flat and waited for him. He hadn’t left London yet, and didn’t seem to feel the need to. He knew someone was in his flat when he came in and drew a knife.  I lunged at him and we fought. He nicked me right here,” Sherlock points to the spot behind his ear. “It bled a lot but there was little damage. After awhile, I was able to disarm him and, well, you know. Kill him.”

“How many?” asks John.

“What?”

“How many people did you kill?” he says.

“I, um, I… over one hundred maybe a little more? I lost count, Mycroft probably has the exact number somewhere.” Sherlock looks at john, expecting him to be disgusted, to yell, and to kick him out of Baker Street forever.

            John, however, doesn’t do any of that. He sits in his chair, in that oatmeal jumper that Sherlock has to use all his willpower to stop himself from snuggling in when he sees it, calmly looking at the floor, then to Sherlock.

“I still can’t believe you are real”

“You aren’t doing to try to shoot me again, are you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Because I spent some time while I was away learning some key information that hallucination me would not know.”

“Like What?”

“Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and I know it isn’t a planet, Pluto. We are currently orbiting around the sun at 67,108 miles per hour, while the sun is moving in the Milky Way Galaxy at 43,000 miles per hour and there is currently no threat of an aster—“

 

“I get it! I won’t shoot you! I am just still so surprised and happy to see you again.” John interrupts.

 

They both smile while finishing up their meals. And end up sitting in the living room, in their respective chairs. It looks like what an average night at baker street appeared to be three years ago. They both fall comfortably into their respective places, knees just barely brushing when they sit. After a few moments, John says

“You are forgiven, you know.  I’m not mad, well a little bit, but I do understand why you killed all those people and faked your death to the general public. I get it, I do. I am just having trouble understanding why, I wasn’t in on it. We told, tell, each other everything, Sherlock, why was this different?”

“I couldn’t risk it.”

“Risk what, Sherlock?”

“You. Getting hurt, whether you came with me and ran, or stayed here and pretended to not know, someone would find out and hurt you. And I can’t—I cant handle the thought of—of—losing the only person I ever found myself lov—. I just couldn’t risk it.“

“Say it.”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock says, cautiously

“No, what you were going to say bit didn’t”

“You first,” he mutters, childishly

“Sherlock,” John says “please.”

“I“ Sherlock rises from his chair

“Love” He steps over to John

“You.” He says as he sweeps his face down in front of Johns, hands on either armrest.

He closes the space between them and straddles john’s hips, forcing his legs closed. His lips make contact with John’s and it’s like a thousand fireworks go off at once. John’s tongue slides across Sherlock’s bottom lip and then glides into his mouth, their tongues rolling and sliding together. Sherlock begins to grind his hips into Johns; the sudden contact makes both men moan into each other’s mouths.

 

Sherlock moves his face away, fractionally and whispers,

“Bedroom?”

“Oh. God. Yes” John says, pulling Sherlock into another crushing kiss, hips grinding wildly against his, and pulling at Sherlock’s shirt, trying to pull it up to feel more, _more, more._

Sherlock stands, the bulge in the front of his trousers evident, “Bedroom” he says again, almost like a plea.

John stands and joins him; they both walk to the stairs and up to John’s room.  John stops Sherlock at the door, breathless and flushed, he says,

“I meant what I said earlier.”

“When?”

“When I was going to shoot you?”

“What?” Sherlock asks, confused.

“I love you”

“I love you too,” He says, pulling John further into the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a shit-bag for not posting for so long! I had finals and needed sleep and all that shit. Please comment (I love/need the feedback)


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